


dusk, warm and winding

by sorori



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Bonding, Companions, Conversations, Dimension Travel, Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorori/pseuds/sorori
Summary: Ptolemy steps through the Gate.Figuratively, though, obviously.I wouldn't have it any other way, Rekhyt.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	dusk, warm and winding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mikkary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkary/gifts).



He was going to spend an eternity in this place. 

He’s _already_ spent an eternity in this place. 

A quiet intrigued sensation suffuses his essence, and it’s with this interest that he inspects the lights swirling around him. They seem almost to respond to his thoughts, darting when his attention is captured by a distant flare, pulsing gently when a question surfaces from his consciousness. His attention, it was on a...his thoughts...whose thoughts exactly? 

It is after another eternity that he remembers that he has a name. _Ptolemy_ , he remembers, although it doesn’t feel terribly important. Nothing feels important, really, except the curiosity that has defined his presence in this place from the beginning. The feeling sharpens slightly, and with the shift Ptolemy begins to become aware of his surroundings, or lack thereof. 

_What is this?_ he thinks. With the question, his essence forms a dull point that prods the sparks fizzling in front of him. Some of them recoil a bit, or shiver as if tickled, while others hiss and flash brighter in response. 

He wants to capture one, examine it. But he has nothing with which to do so, and gradually he becomes frustrated with the lack of a physical form. The low burn of frustration carries more sensations back to him: the hunger for knowledge, the process of drawing the Gate and holding the ankh, the solid weight of it in his hand. 

Ptolemy stirs. He needs to record this somehow, lest the constant shifting of the place pluck his observations from him and carry them far, far away. Already he feels the tugging of a nearby vortex dragging away his memories of just moments ago, its many pinpricks first lodged in his essence, then breaking off. The hunger intensifies, but with it, a burst of anxiety at the sheer scale of movement and sensation around him. And wait, where is-- 

_Bartimaeus?_ he calls, unsure, wondering if the name Rekhyt will carry in the vastness of this world. Around a cloud of threads he registers a brief wisp of an image. It’s the marketplace where he’s gone with Bartimaeus countless times before, back in the physical world. He recalls, now, the existence of another world. His world. Remembrance envelops him with foreignness. 

He moves closer, but it dissolves in a breeze that brushes past him but pelts his surroundings with a thousand bright waves in succession. There--another image, below, this time of a roaring waterfall, and Ptolemy can almost feel the spray of mist on his...well, what did he have in this world? No hands, much less ink. He thinks of Bartimaeus again, and this time the thought conjures the sound of a laugh, remembered from the corner of a faraway library. The laugh rings out and bounces around, but he ignores it in favor of gathering together the material to fashion a hand, which materializes but only with great effort. 

_Looks nice_ , says something from beside him, and Ptolemy can feel the humor around him, light and dancing. 

A flash of relief. _Rekhyt_ , he blurts out, hoping his use of a name, even a nickname, isn’t inappropriate here. The veils drifting in the air bob briefly in acknowledgment. 

_You came_ , comes the whisper through the veils, faintly incredulous. _You...really came._

_Yes_ , says Ptolemy. _And you answered._

For a moment, they simply exist in the void of the Other Place, buffered by a wind that is neither hot nor cold. The shape of the hand Ptolemy has been working on dissolves now that his focus has been drawn away, sand particles sloughing off. He notices some grains moving in the opposite direction, like being drawn to a strange center of gravity. 

Suddenly, he registers the sensation of what feels like a cloak being placed on his presence, comforting at first but gradually more restrictive, contorting his sense of self. 

_No, I can do it on my own_ , he says quickly, a little worried about the state of his lone hand, whose appearance now suggests a fish lying helplessly on the shore. 

The pressure releases immediately. _Are you sure? You know I have a hell of a lead on you in shaping essence._

_I know_ , says Ptolemy, remembering his past inquiries into Bartimaeus’s many transformations. This reassures him, a tangible example to envision and work towards, even though everything feels backward here. Is this how Bartimaeus felt when he first came to their world, ripped from this bath of essence? _Besides, posture all you want, but this is something new for you too, Rekhyt._

There’s a pause, during which Ptolemy attempts to sculpt his amorphous body into a shape that better approximates his human shape. He leans it back, inspecting, when he hears Bartimaeus speak again. _Yes, well, I had my doubts. What other magician would risk it all to come here, let alone keep his head once he’d actually made it? But if it was you…_ The rest of the statement goes unsaid. Instead, a question. _Why did you trust me?_

Ptolemy sparkles with mirth. This answer, at least, is something he doesn’t need to search for. _You had so many opportunities to ruin me, and that was while you were not even in your home territory and I ostensibly held dominion over you. There was no question of my faith in you._

_No_ , says Bartimaeus. Ptolemy notices a path materializing, one that starts at the figure of his body and leads to a beetle, which transforms into a lion that shifts into a boy that… Ptolemy tears away his focus, feeling dizzy for the first time since entering the Other Place. Bartimaeus continues, _You’ve trusted me since the beginning, or close to it. Why?_

The very shape of this question feels constricting in this place. It’s an odd thing to talk about trust when your very essences are intertwined. Still, he thinks back to the first year he knew Bartimaeus, the constant parry and riposte of conversation about the world of spirits, the gradual truth that spun between them. It’s not hard to sift through the memories and images that belong to him because they also belong to the Other Place now, conjured up lightning-quick with even the slightest nudge. He summons an answer. _Because you talked to me_ , says Ptolemy, _and you listened._

And in some ways, it truly was that simple. For a child that no one expected to amount to much within the royal family, the vast stores of books and then the priest of Luxor were immeasurable comforts. But even they could not sate the desire to learn or achieve the satisfaction of being heard and answered. The metamorphosing shadow of Bartimaeus holds its shape briefly, flickers, and for a moment Ptolemy feels, really absorbs, the agelessness of Bartimaeus. In comparison, his life, short even by human standards, must feel like less than a blink in comparison. He wonders how many more lives Bartimaeus will encounter after him, then returns, _And why did_ you _trust me?_

Bartimaeus deflects, as he is wont to do. _You should leave soon_ , he says. Though the statement was meant to distract, it’s accompanied by what feels like genuine concern. 

_Absolutely not_ , Ptolemy says. He can now control his dummy to walk back and forth between his original location on the path and Bartimaeus’s avatar, which has now settled into a pace of shifting every other heartbeat instead of fluttering constantly. _There is so much to explore here! How far do our senses stretch? Can the elemental walls be seen from here?_

_Seeing is a construct in this place_ , says Bartimaeus, tone exasperated though still a bit uneasy. His figure stirs as they settle into their usual patterns of question and answer. Multicolored lights sway, hypnotic in the distance. 

Ptolemy’s dummy waves its hand (smoothly, Ptolemy notes with satisfaction). _You know what I mean_ , he says, already distracted by speculations of what else he can now observe for himself. _And I see plenty of images from the other world every now and then, although I’m not sure if I can only see the ones that I personally have experienced._ In fact, he spies one now, snaking its way towards the pair of them. It’s himself, he realizes. 

_Many images appear in the Other Place, Ptolemy_ , Bartimaeus explains. _They could be yours. They could be mine. But all that’s not really the point. In here, we all exist as one. Essence soup, you know?_

_Fascinating_ , Ptolemy murmurs. The image doesn’t seem to be from his perspective, and the screen across memory-Ptolemy is tinged with an unfamiliar haze. He reaches out without meaning to, and he tastes a distinct mix of emotions: measured watchfulness, a fiery fondness, the dull ache of existence. _So whose memory is that?_

Bartimaeus looks. The image vanishes like it was never there, a sleight of hand played by court entertainers. _No comment_ , he says gruffly. 

Ptolemy lets this pass. Instead, he seizes on the image's relevance to the quest upon which he had originally embarked. _Are your memories of our world simply deposited all together when you return here?_ _Can you interact with other spirits in this place, or do you all share your experiences and sensations at once?_

_One question at a time, Ptolemy_ , sighs Bartimaeus, but his tone is indulgent, if wry. The feeling of _Bartimaeus_ , familiar and warm, washes over Ptolemy. _Here, let me show you what I couldn’t explain back in your world. Try sticking_ that _in your Apocrypha._

_You belong there too, you know_ , Ptolemy says, words coming out in a rush, _in the other world. The other--_ other _place. You have a name there, though I know you despise it, and I can’t promise you complete freedom yet, but if there is a way I will find it, and--_

_And?_

_And you will always have a place with me, if you want it_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, as they're both aware, some things don't need to be said out loud (so to speak) to be known. Happy Yuletide, mikkary! I've also always been really curious about these two's relationship.


End file.
